


I Don’t Really Care (you can keep the things we used to share)

by ShippingEverything



Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: 5+1 Things, Also i guess theres some comfort but its mostly just about self acceptance, Angst, Hanschen And Thea Are Siblings, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Moving On, Post-Break Up, also this has Nothing to do w the story but my hans isnt white, and growing as a person, if u picture a blue eyed blond while you read this ill know and cry, thea calls him 'little' and he calls her 'tay' its very cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-05-16 10:51:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14809958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippingEverything/pseuds/ShippingEverything
Summary: but i need to know now that we're apart, what did you do with my heart?Or: Five ways Hanschen and Ernst didn't break up, and one way they did





	1. casual

**Author's Note:**

> i realized recently that, in all my three years and _fourty one_ fics of sa writing, i don’t have much pure hernst angst. obviously the best angst fic (and possibly best fic, in general) that i’ve ever done was [Don’t Call It Love](/works/7630810%E2%80%9D%20rel=) and i doubt i’ll ever top that, but i mean it’s always nice to have goals right?
> 
> this fic has, honestly, been three years in the making and i'm beyond excited to _finally_ be posting this. so yeah, enjoy this angst/hanschen character piece in disguise. 
> 
> title from thomas sanders' Things We Used To Share

“Hey, Hanschen, we’re- Oh Jesus Christ.”

Hanschen doesn’t move from his spot, lying on his back on the bed and staring at the ceiling, even as his sister enters the room and turns on the light. There’s a song softly playing in the background, something low and rumbling with an undercurrent of angst. Hanschen doesn’t remember turning it on. “Hello, Thea.”

“This place is a mess,” Thea says. It’s not, really, at least Hanschen doesn’t think so. He’s been trying to keep Thea’s guest room tidy--or, as tidy as he can keep it when all of his belongings are in boxes piled around the room. “Have you moved since we got your stuff on Friday?”

“Yes,” Hanschen says, though he doesn’t mention that he’s moved as few times as possible, only to go to the bathroom and to grab protein bars.

“Well, you’re lying in your bed in _jeans_ with the lights off, and- Christ, what the _fuck_ is this music? Alexa, Alexa? Pause, please.” The Echo Dot on the nightstand beeps once before the music cuts into silence. Thea lets it sit for a moment, then sighs, “Little… Are you alright?”

Hanschen closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath and holds it for three seconds before breathing out of his nose. He lets his head fall to the side and opens his eyes to Thea, in her coat and looking at him with unmistakable pity in her eyes. “I’m fine.”

Thea stares at him. She looks pointedly at the floor, where there’s a pile of laundry that Hanschen meant to fold after Friday and, _whoops_ , protein bar wrappers. “You sure? Final answer? Because, listen, it’s _okay_ if you’re not, you and Ernst-”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Hanschen interrupts her, far too hissed and far too defensive for her not to notice. He clenches his jaw for a second before breathing out slowly. “You were going out, weren’t you?”

Thea rolls her eyes, but her expression is still a touch too worried for Hanschen’s tastes. Still, she doesn’t comment on him, responding “Yeah, with Anna and Wendla. You can come too, Wendla actually invited you. You apparently haven’t been answering your phone.”

“I’m not even sure where my phone is,” Hanschen says, gesturing vaguely at the floor. “It’s probably dead.”

Thea’s lips tighten, like she’s physically holding in commentary. Hanschen turns back to the ceiling. He hears her takes a deep breath.

“Fine. Fine! I’ll leave you,” Thea says, and when Hanschen looks out of the corner of his eye, she has her hands raised as if surrendering. “But at least try and find your phone, please, if only to soothe my mind. I don’t like the idea of you being completely cut off from the outside world.”

She smiles, but it’s strained. Hanschen looks away from her and blinks back up at the ceiling. “Anything for you, Tay.”

 

_**{** _

“I think we should break up,” Ernst says casually one evening.

Hanschen doesn’t even look up from his book, “I was just thinking the same thing, honestly.”

_(But that’s not at all how it went, is it?)_

_**}** _


	2. callous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a bit late but sometimes its Just Like That

Ernst is _talking to_ other people. Hanschen doesn’t think he’s supposed to know this, because everyone shuts up about it when he gets close, but his friends are gossips, and loud ones at that; it’s not hard to piece together what the fragments of sentence mean. Even then, he doesn’t know the full scale of Ernst’s moving on until he stumbles into it one afternoon, when Thea has a quiet conversation in her living room while Hanschen is supposed to be repacking all his stuff, too far away to hear.

“-Moving on awfully fast, isn't he?” Thea says, and Hanschen pauses in his spot in the hall.

Moritz, who had come over to get gift ideas for Martha’s birthday but stayed for _some_ reason, says, “You shouldn't say that.”

“What, am I'm not allowed to acknowledge that it’s _weird_ that Hanschen spends his weekends lying in bed, listening to fucking breakup playlists on Spotify, while his ex is out there pulling people?” Thea says, a snarl clear in her voice, and Hanschen, from where he’s standing frozen in the hallway like an eavesdropping child, inhales sharply but silently. He had known that she had noticed, obviously, but to hear her say it so clearly...

“You're _allowed_ to do whatever you want,” Moritz says, his voice sharper than Hanschen is used to, matching Thea’s tone with a fearlessness that no one could’ve expected from him in high school, “I'm just saying that you're being a _bit_ unfair to Ernst.”

“Ernst’s being unfair to _himself_ , if you ask me. One would think he’d get _sore_ with all the going out he’s been doing, he could stand to take better care of his body.”

“Thea!” Moritz snaps, then, realizing that he’s being loud, whispers, “This isn’t easy on either of them and it’s unfair of you to act like it is.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Thea says, but there’s a fight in her words rather than a concession. Hanschen decides he’s heard enough. The idea of someone else sleeping in the bed that Ernst and he had brought, kissing the lips he knew so well, hurts, but he still doesn’t appreciate Thea saying those sorts of things about Ernst. As he creeps back down the hall he hears Moritz and Thea talking over each other.

“I get that you’re BFFs with him, but my _brother_ is-”

“I just don’t understand how you can forget that we _both_ know Ernst was-”

Hanschen makes his steps overly loud as he heads back towards the living room, and both voices cut off instantly. When he enters the room, Thea and Moritz are sitting on opposite sides of the couch, glaring at each other.

“Are we all okay?” Hanschen asks, referring to the tension in the air.

“Peachy,” Thea says, at the same time that Mortiz says, “Absolutely fine.”

“Good,” Hanschen says, simply because he doesn’t know what else to say.

After a moment, Moritz stands. “I should get going. Thanks for the ideas, Thea, Hanschen.”

He nods to them and heads out, and Thea sighs deeply. She looks at Hanschen with considering eyes. “Do you wanna go out, this weekend? There’s a new gay bar and Ilse’s been sleeping with a bartender there, so we could make a night of it.”

Hanschen considers it, imagines going out with his sister and her friends, who he knows will try and force drinks and boys onto him; imagines touching someone new, kissing a stranger, holding someone who isn’t Ernst for the first time since _fucking_ _high school_. If he had thought that imagining Ernst with other people was bad, this idea is nauseating.

“No, thanks though,” He says, eventually. He pretends not to notice the way Thea deflates further. “Maybe next weekend.”

 

_**{** _

Ernst examines his nails, the picture of indifference. “I think we should break up.”

“Oh, for real?” Hanschen asks, before shrugging and shooting at Ernst with double fingerguns. “Well, sure, if that’s what you want, my dude.”

_(Like he’d ever be that callous, or you that casual. Try harder next time)_

_**}** _


	3. bittersweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its been a second but listen: my house flooded, there were complications. anyway, back to every other day updates now

Hanschen has his own apartment for the first time ever.

Or, to be honest, _“own”_ is an exaggeration. He’s actually sharing a two-bedroom with Otto.

Still, he’s never had his own room in an apartment before, hell, he’s never _lived_ in an apartment before; Hanschen went from his family home to a garden district college dorm to that one year in the shitty house just off campus that a bunch of them, Hanschen and Ernst and Ilse and Georg and Thea and Anna and Martha, had rented _mostly_ legally to the nearly-suburban duplex with Ernst. But now he’s in an apartment near the financial district with Otto. New building, new part of the city, new… everything.

Including this, the new-but-slowly-becoming-normal sight of an obviously debauched and barely dressed Georg Zirschnitz eating cereal in his kitchen.

“Can’t you put on some clothes?” Hanschen asks disdainfully. Georg is only wearing boxers, a pair that very obviously has Otto’s name stitched into the waistband at that.

“Can’t you buy some better milk?” Georg shoots back.

Hanschen rolls his eyes and opens the fridge to find that--shock of shocks--Georg has drank the last of their milk despite how he complains about the brand _every time_ he comes over. He closes the fridge with a huff, grabbing a mug from the cabinet for coffee instead. “Shopping is your boyfriend’s job. Take your issues up with him.”

Georg _tsk_ s and when Hanschen turns around, he has a hand laced into his hair. “Me and Otto aren’t boyfriends, you know. Like, we hook up, but it’s all very casual.”

Hanschen, who knows that Georg has all but lived here for the last two weeks and who had come in yesterday to see Otto and Georg cuddling on the couch and watching some shitty Hallmark movie, raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”

“Don’t say it like _that_ ,” Georg huffs and rolls his eyes, “I mean, it’s just so much _pressure_ to be in something serious. You get it, right? With the whole,” Georg waves a hand vaguely, “You know.”

Hanschen doesn’t know. “I have no idea what you’re trying to say.”

“We’re like, not supposed to talk about it,” Georg says, and when Hanschen continues looking at him blankly, he sighs, “You _know_. Why you broke up with Ernst and whatever. Just too much expectation, ties that bind and all that.”

Hanschen has half a second where he responds viscerally to that sentence, where he hears _Why_ you _broke up with Ernst_ and it echoes through his head and, for half, a second, his face crumbles. Then he gets it together and schools himself into practiced neutrality.

“I didn’t break up with Ernst,” He says, eventually, when he’s able to breathe around the lump in his throat.

“But you…” Georg starts, frowning, then, “ _Oh_.”

Hanschen hums in affirmation. Georg looks, at least, a little regretful.

“Sorry. I just assumed. Like, none of us ever talk about it, and well…”

Georg doesn’t _say_ _“None of us could imagine_ Ernst _breaking up with_ you _,”_ but it certainly comes across anyway. It’s… not _fine_ , because Hanschen is still kind of a mess about it, but it’s certainly understandable; if he didn’t know what happened, if it wasn’t his life, he would be shocked that Ernst Robel, known for being kind and soft-hearted and sensitive, broke up with cold, callous Hanschen Rilow too. Hanschen raps his nail on the side of his mug thrice, quick but loud. “I understand. But you were wrong.”

He doesn’t say _“I thought you all would’ve known, maybe even before I did,”_ he doesn’t say _“I would’ve been fine with more pressure, with ties that bind,”_ he doesn’t say _“Why didn’t any of you just_ ask _?”_

He raps his finger against the mug, again. Georg scoops up a huge spoonful of cereal. It’s quiet, for a moment.

“Well,” Georg says, eventually, “Sorry, I guess.”

Hanschen hums again. He’s sorry too.

 

_**{** _

“I think we should break up,” Ernst says softly, like he barely wants the words to be heard. Fireworks explode overhead, lighting them up in shades of blue and yellow and red.

“Okay,” Hanschen says, kissing him once on the cheek, before leaving.

_(This is the one I like the best, actually, but it’s still not right)_

_**}** _


	4. cool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: thank god I sorted out my flooded house, now I can get back to writing. Sure is a good thing that I store all my writing exclusively on my google drive!  
> My laptop, suddenly refusing to connect to the internet: you Thought

Hanschen has always been a fairly guarded person, only opening up for Thea and his small circle of exceptionally close friends, but the people at his office certainly try. He's usually able to avoid their invites and conversation starters, but company parties are all but mandatory and he can't exactly avoid his coworkers at those.

Which has led to this, Hanschen cornered by two of his older coworkers at a party. The first man is Greg Henderson, a man who looks like he might've been the popular quarterback type about fifteen years ago, and the second is Greg’s good friend Rupert Vogel, who's squat and plain with a crooked smile. They're both making Hanschen talk, banal small talk about the weather and life and Rupert’s dog, when it happens, the one thing Hanschen’s been dreading even more than just his normal _“I have to talk to my coworkers”_ dread.

“So, where's Ernst at?” Rupert asks casually, not knowing that he's just thrown Hanschen into fight or flight mode.

To be fair, it’s not that Hanschen didn't think about this happening, about someone asking about Ernst, it's more like he'd just desperately hoped that he wouldn't run into anyone who _would_ while he was making his mandatory appearance. But he should've expected it, he supposes; as Hanschen’s kinder, friendlier, charismatic counterpart, Ernst had been fairly popular among Hanschen’s coworkers.

Before Hanschen can even decide what he's going to say, his mouth is already moving to say, “At home.”

Greg raises an eyebrow. “At home? You didn't invite your boyfriend to party this year?”

Hanschen has an option here: there are two possible paths before him. The first is the easiest, just going along with this and pretending Ernst is still his boyfriend. The second involves letting his coworkers in on a part of his life that he's still hasn't completely come to terms with.

“He’d love to be here, but he’s really busy,” Hanschen continues, making his decision and digging further into the hole he’s created, “Teachers, you know.”

Greg, whose wife is a teacher, nods. “No, I get it, Liza is always busy this time of year too. But that just makes the ‘sorry for being busy’ make up better, eh?”

 _This was a mistake_ , Hanschen thinks as he tries to laugh along with Rupert and Greg, though his attempt must fall flat, if the look the two men exchange say anything about it. Hanschen’s stomach twists. He hates it when his older coworkers exchange looks like that.

“I’m gonna go get some snacks,” Rupert says, and disappears. Hanschen immediately goes on high alert. Greg has a glint in his eyes, a _Time to share my wisdom_ glint.

“Listen, Hans,” Greg says, in a tone of voice that Hanschen assumes Greg thinks sounds wise, “You’re really young-”

Hanschen interrupts, trying to stop the train before it even leaves the station. “Greg, please, you don’t have to-”

“No, this is important,” Greg cuts Hanschen off. Hanschen sighs. “Let an old man give you some advice.”

“You're barely five years older than me,” Hanschen says weakly, but nods to allow Greg to continue.

“I know its hard, balancing your work and your life, but you're a smart kid. You'll figure it out,” Greg says then pauses, seeming to weigh something. “Fuck it, might as well say it. Hans, I saw the look in your eyes when Rupert asked about Ernst, and we’ve all been concerned about the bags under your eyes, and… Not to shove my way in where I’m not wanted, but I’ve got another piece of advice, if you’re okay with it.”

Hanschen thinks on it, staying silent long enough that Greg starts to wave it off. “... Sure. Why not.”

“I know you're young and he seems like your whole life, but sometimes things don't work. And if you two can't figure it out, then well…” Greg pauses, clapping a hand over Hanschen’s shoulder. “Sometimes things end, even without reason. And that's alright.”

“I-” Hanschen's throat feels tight. “Thank you, Greg.”

Greg squeezes Hanschen’s shoulder. “You're a good kid, Rilow. See you around.”

He ducks off, probably going to go find Rupert, leaving Hanschen to his thoughts. So far, all his friends had been laying on the faux-casual or suffocatingly handling him with kid gloves, especially as Georg spread the news throughout their friend group about who broke up with who, and no one had really asked him how he was doing or offered advice beyond _“Come to the bar with us!”_

It’s embarrassingly well known in their friend group that Hanschen isn't taking it well; that Hanschen Rilow, self-proclaimed ice king, is a fucking _mess_ and has been for _weeks_. He doesn't blame his friends--if he doesn't know what to do then why the fuck would any of them?--but Greg… He's certainly given Hanschen something to think about.

 

**_{_ **

Ernst has Hanschen’s bags packed by the door when Hanschen gets back from work one day. “I think we should break up,” He says.

Hanschen doesn't say anything, he just takes his bags and goes.

_(You certainly seem cool in this version, but it's not right)_

**_}_ **


	5. passionate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alcohol tw for this one bc hanschen goes to a bar and has one (1) drink

Hanschen is at a bar. He doesn't hate bars, not really, but he's definitely out of practice; he's quite literally never been to a bar without Ernst and/or a gaggle of friends dragging him there, ever. And yet here he is, admittedly at a nicer bar than what his friends usually go to (his shoes don’t stick to the floor when he walks, for one), but at a bar nonetheless.

On a Wednesday.

Alone.

 _This was dumb_ , he thinks into his half-empty gin and tonic. He’s been here for thirty minutes and he hasn’t spoken to anyone but the bartender. He frowns. _This shouldn’t be this hard. You’re supposed to be trying_.

Before Hanschen can continue down the road of mentally yelling at himself, someone beside him clears their throat. Hanschen looks over to see It’s a twink, pale with blond hair and blue eyes, probably taller than Hanschen, in a fishnet crop top and metallic skinny jeans. He looks no older than 18, and Hanschen can see a group that he assumes are the twink’s friends hovering about ten feet away, pretending not to look at them. Hanschen gets sudden, vivid flashbacks to their early years of college where they’d dress Moritz up, go to a gay bar, and force him to try to talk to cute boys.

The twink looks up at Hanschen through his lashes, opens his glossed lips, and says, “Hey there, daddy.”

“ _Jesus fucking christ_ ,” Hanschen curses, physically recoiling. The twink leans back too, looking shocked and confused in response. Hanschen continues “No. Just… god, no. I’m _not_ into that _at all_.”

The twink looks Hanschen over and gives him an unimpressed look. “You’re wearing slacks and a button up in a gay bar on a Wednesday and you want _me_ to believe _you’re_ not into that?”

Hanschen laughs, despite himself. “Coming out tonight was kind of a spur of the moment choice.”

“Well,” He says, sliding the next stool closer and sitting on it, “What's your name, mister spontaneous?”

“Hans,” Hanschen says, then, “Hanschen, actually, if you want.”

The twink raises an eyebrow. “That's a new one.”

“What?”

“The name,” He clarifies, “Never heard that one before. I’m Andrew, by the way.”

Hanschen blinks, startled, as he realizes what the twink’s implying. “That's my real name.”

Andrew winks, “Got it, chief.”

Hanschen doesn’t speak for a second, fully comprehending that this college student apparently thinks he's… Closeted? Sneaking out to a gay bar? _I don't look old enough for that, do I?_

“I’m not married,” Hanschen says, eventually, if only because he can’t stand to let the idea lie.

Andrew nods, but it looks almost patronizing. “I didn't say you were.”

“No, really, I’m out,” Hanschen insists, “Bisexual and proud. Not even dating anyone.”

Andrew’s posture shifts. He leans a bit closer, his indulging smile shifts into a smirk, and he drops his hand so his fingers are mere centimeters from Hanschen's. Hanschen suddenly realizes that he’s been played. “Oh, really? I can’t say I’m not shocked.”

Hanschen doesn’t lean back, because he’s still not entirely sure how he feels about this, but he does say, “It’s, uh, a new thing.”

“What kind of man would let _you_ go?” Andrew says, finally bridging the gap and trailing his fingers up Hanschen’s arm, drawing long circles with his touch around Hanschen’s wrist.

Hanschen does pull his hand back at this. “Listen-”

“Oh, come on,” Andrew cuts him off, rolling his eyes and drawing back, “You don’t have to be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like _this_ ,” Andrew says, “I know what you’re going to say, that I’m too young or you’re too old or something, and it’s not like I’m asking you to _marry_ me.”

“I’m not even sure if you’re old enough for that,” Hanschen says, more to himself than anything else. Andrew sighs deeply, rolling his eyes again, and inadvertently reaffirming Hanschen in his decision that Andrew’s _much_ too young for him.

“Well, if you ever decide you want a little more passion in your life, Hanschen,” Andrew says, handing Hanschen a _business card_ and leaving.

Hanschen stays there for a moment, flipping the card over in his hands, before slipping it into his pocket. He throws the rest of his drink back and stands, walking outside to hail a cab. Maybe he’ll try again next week.

 

_**{** _

Ernst, fire in his eyes, smashes a bat into Hanschen’s car. As he does so, he screams loudly enough that all their busybody neighbors can hear, “I think we should break up!”

“Fucking fantastic idea, asshole!” Hanschen agrees, before dropping a match on a pile of Ernst’s stuff that he’s collected outside for this very purpose.

_(Maybe it would’ve been easier if it had been like this)_

**_}_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is a little weird for me, because in it's canon hanschen and ernst have been dating, solidly, since high school? so the usual flirty, seductive hanschen that i write doesnt fit here; unlike my other hanschens, this hanschen never went to gay bars (or any bars) to pick up, he never had one night stands, he never dated anyone but ernst. its weird and fun to play with this very specific version of a character that i write a lot
> 
> also gay culture is making business cards with your number, instagram, and snapchat on them (i have a friend who has them and i thought my andy mientus parody twink would too)


	6. real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're at the end! Thank you all so so much for coming along with me on this journey, I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

“Hanschen?”

Hanschen's heart skips at the sound of his name, at the voice saying it. He turns around to see- “Ernst. I didn't know you'd be here.”

Hanschen immediately wants to slam his head into a wall. It's not _exactly_ a lie, but it still sounds fucking _dumb_ ; he’s at Anna’s birthday party and all of their mutual friends are here, for god's sake, _of course_ Ernst would too.

Regardless of how much of a fool Hanschen is making of himself, Ernst just smiles, genuinely, like he's actually happy to see Hanschen. “How’ve you been?”

Hanschen has… So many things he could say to this. Admittedly, most of them are straight up lies to make himself look like someone who _hasn't_ publicly cried at the grocery store in the past two months, but his first thought, _Not super great_ , is embarrassingly transparent. Still, supermarket breakdowns aside, he's been better. Even seeing Ernst in front of him is just a soft tightening in his heart rather than the knife-like pain that he'd imagined he’d feel.

Hanschen’s not okay, he’s still a fucking disaster, but by god, he's getting better.

“I’m, uh, doing pretty okay, actually.”

 

_**{** _

Ernst sits across the table from him, uncharacteristically quiet. He nervously bites at his lip, picks at his nails with his thumb on one hand while he taps the pointer of the other in a staccato beat on the tabletop. Each twitching rap of his finger sounds as loud as the bang of a firework in the silence of the duplex. When Hanschen reaches across the table to place a hand over Ernst’s, to stop the tapping, Ernst flinches back.

Hanschen freezes with his hand hovering in the air between them. Ernst looks both deeply ashamed and outright terrified.

“I think we should break up,” Ernst rushes out, like he’s afraid he’ll lose his nerve if he doesn’t say it quickly enough. Hanschen imagines that he can feel his own heart stop.

Hanschen opens and closes his mouth many times, failing to even stammer a single sound. Eventually, he manages a “ _Why_?” that sounds like it’s ripped out of his chest.

Ernst gets this look on his face, the same look he gets when he watches people he likes get kicked off of cooking shows or when one of their dumb friends gets too drunk at the bar and starts crying, a look that says _Oh, honey_ , but in a way steeped with more pity than empathy. Ernst reaches across the table to take Hanschen’s still suspended hand into both of his. Hanschen notices that there’s nothing else in Ernst’s eyes; no cold bitterness, no harsh indifference, no burning rage, no soft affection… no regret. Only concern, the kind he’d show for a friend or even a dog on the street.

“We’re going different directions. You with the company, and me with teaching, and…” Ernst trails off, “And you have to feel it too, Hansi. The way we’re drifting apart.”

“ _Drifting apart_?” He hadn’t noticed that at all. Sure, sometimes he stays late catching up or getting ahead on work and sometimes Ernst takes his dinner at his desk, or insists that Hanschen go out without him, or falls asleep on the couch before he can make it back to bed, or-

Hanschen reels back like he’s been slapped, staring with unseeing eyes at the table. “Oh my god, you’ve been moving away from me this whole time and I didn’t even notice.”

Hanschen doesn’t look up, couldn’t look up, but he hears Ernst click his tongue softly. “I don’t think it would’ve changed things even if you had.”

 _But it might have_ , Hanschen thinks, but doesn’t say. Ernst goes back to tapping his fingers on the table.

“Listen, I’ll go stay at Moritz’s tonight,” Ernst says, and Hanschen is suddenly struck with a half-remembered image of Moritz’s face last weekend when Hanschen had shared that he was considering proposing, how Moritz had said _“Maybe sit on it for a while before you get a ring,”_ kind but firm. Hanschen realizes that Moritz knew, has known for god knows how long, and he wonders how many of their other friends knew this was going to happen.

“No, I’ll,” Hanschen stops, his voice too high, too hysterical. He clears his throat, wets his lips, then continues, more normally, “I’ll just go over to Thea’s. She has an extra bedroom she’s not using anyway, you’d have to sleep on the couch at Moritz’s.”

When Hanschen finally looks up, Ernst is still giving him that pitying look.

“For what it’s worth,” Ernst says, “I still really care about you. That’s why I know I have to do this.”

Hanschen squeezes his eyes shut, rolls his lips together. He nods sharply, once, then again after a second. He is not going to cry at his kitchen table ( _Not his, probably, not anymore, and_ god _, they’ve been living together for so long do they even_ know _what belongs to who?_ ). He swipes a hand across his eyes, glad when it comes back dry despite the building pressure he can feel, and sniffles, loudly and embarrassingly. When he opens his eyes, he refuses to take the tissue Ernst is offering him. He is _not_ going to cry at the table.

Hanschen pushes his chair back, wincing in unison with Ernst at the squeal it makes across the floor. He stands and turns, robotically walking towards the door. With every step, his vision blurs a little bit more. He fumbles with the lock, suddenly unable to work the door that he’s lived with for _three years_. His noise of frustration comes out sounding painfully like a cut off sob and his vision suddenly is overcome with tears. Hanschen leans against the door and takes a few deep breaths because he’s _not going to cry, goddamn it_ , until Ernst comes up behind Hanschen and unlocks it himself. Ernst doesn’t push Hanschen, doesn’t offer another tissue, doesn’t speak, doesn’t do anything but wait for Hanschen to calm down. Hanschen suddenly, violently, wishes Ernst didn’t know exactly the right thing to do, that he’d mess up and make it easier for Hanschen to hate him.

“I’m sorry,” Hanschen says finally, once he can trust himself to speak. His voice still cracks. He can feel a few tears at the corners of his eyes, stuck in his eyelashes, though none have fallen yet.

Ernst gives him a smile so bittersweet that Hanschen can almost taste it on his tongue, chalky and sharp and suffocating. Hanschen closes his eyes and shudders out a breath, feeling the few tears that were on the edge sliding down his face at the movement. Ernst leans in and kisses Hanschen on the cheek, perfunctorily, like it’s something that someone told him he should do, and hands Hanschen his car keys. “I’m sorry too, Hanschen.”

Ernst’s lips are wet from kissing where the tears had fallen, but he has no tears of his own. He looks a little sad but mostly just uncomfortable. _Fuck_ , Hanschen thinks, nodding jerkily one more time, before turning on his heel and leaving the duplex. He doesn’t notice anything on the walk, just focusing on keeping himself moving. He barely makes it inside his car before he starts fully crying, all messy snot and bubbling tears and sobs so violent that he feels like he's drowning. After what feels like an eternity, when he’s out of tears and his throat is raw, he pulls out his phone, wiping his face messily on the sweatshirt he keeps in his passenger seat. He texts Thea, _**Hey, is that room at yours still open? I’ll explain when I get there**_.

_(There you go. Now, doesn’t that feel better?)_

_**}** _

**Author's Note:**

> thank you So much for reading! kudos, comments, and bookmarks warm my heart xoxo
> 
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